Dearly Departed
by Rudiger Goodkyn
Summary: Life had been fair for Calen Garrand. He was a respectable merchant, married to a beautiful and kind wife, and lived in the most prosperous kingdom on Azeroth. The coming of the Scourge changed all that. Rated T for violence.
1. A Note From the Author

Greetings! This is just a place for me to say a few words about the history of the writing and the direction it is headed in. For those who wish to get straight to the story, please feel free to jump to the next chapter. For the small number that may remain, please pull up a chair.

I would like to take this opportunity, first, to sincerely thank you for reading my story. Every time I see the view count go up or get a notification that someone has added me to their favorites; well, it just brings me a whole hell of a lot of joy to know someone out there enjoyed my work. That's the whole reason I put these words on (digital) paper rather than keeping them locked up inside my head.

This story began life as my submission to Blizzard's Global Writing Contest 2010. Since I reside in a state that was ineligible to participate, there was no chance of me winning. Still, you never know what might happen and I submitted anyways. Hollywood would have you believe that someone at the company recognized the talent despite the disqualifying location and try to find someway to reward my perseverance, perhaps with a staff writing position. Well, Hollywood is a lying harpy. It was flagged for deletion before a pair of human eyes ever saw it.

Now, I will fully admit that I can be a vain and self-centered individual at times, especially when it comes to something I created. I felt the story deserved better than automatic erasure. Thankfully, the Internet has many, many sites dedicated to inflating the ego of the self-proclaimed literary genius. I posted the story on several separate locations and decided that would be the end of it.

It wasn't.

Many times when I write something, after I decide that it's over, it is very much over. But something peculiar happened with this story: the characters refused to leave me be. Calen was upset I glossed over such an obscene amount of time. Nessa continued to bully her way into other works under different names and dressings, but it was very clearly her. Torrick, in that pompously bombastic voice of his, would sanctimoniously tell me that he wasn't finished with me yet. Myrella had secrets she wished to share. A crowd of people, somehow at the same time familiar yet their faces foggy and indistinct, called to me from blank spaces between pages.

When paper speaks, you either listen or you double your meds. Well, I began jotting down notes and pretty soon, they began to dwarf the original script. As it stood, the original story's 7500 word limit made it a fairly succinct short-story which, I felt, wrapped up nicely. My quasi-legible notes for the supplemental material nearly equal that, and they're not done yet.

So, to sum up, things are going to be changing with this tale. Events merely hinted at will be expanded, locations mentioned in passing will be explored, old faces will reappear, and new faces will be introduced. I've received a number of messages asking if the end is truly the end. You would think, as the writer, I would know the answer to such questions. The problem is that this is the most organic story I've written in a long time. It has grown in the telling and taken on a life wholly of its own. Many times, I will be just as surprised as you by turns of events. However, I will say this much. Death is cheap in the Warcraft universe. To me, that fact is abhorrent and lessens the impact that death has. I strive to maintain the finality of things. Of course, you can strive all you want against a river, but eventually you must follow its course.

So, again, thanks to you, O, Intrepid Reader, for all the thoughtful comments, genuine criticisms, and heartfelt praise. I am truly humbled by the response this story has provoked and I hope that you will enjoy the further adventures that loom upon the horizon.


	2. A Last Look Back

The morning sun filtered through the rafters of the stables, the warmth slowly driving the fog back to the bay. A gentle breeze brought the promise of afternoon rain that mixed with the scent of straw and horses. The same wind caught Nessa's loose blonde hair and white wool dress, causing both to stir. The sun reflected off loose bits of hay that floated in the air. Calen would have thought she was wreathed in gold had it not been for the icy stare she leveled at him. He was a good foot taller than she, but somehow she managed to loom over him whenever she was convinced he was being a fool.

"A few days journey, two weeks at the most," said Calen as he loaded a wagon with wares, though he himself knew it was wishful thinking. Traveling had become riskier over the last few months and unless he wished to make himself a worn-out target with an exhausted horse, he would have to pace himself. Of course, there was no need to worry his wife with talk of brigands, even if he suspected she already worried enough for the two of them. Nessa always thought the worst would befall her husband without her there to guide him, usually with a sharp jab to the rib.

With fists placed squarely on her hips, she made her way deliberately towards him. Her jaw was set in such a way that it made Calen start rubbing his side unconsciously, anticipating some of her "guidance". Pausing in front of him, studying his face with intense blue eyes, she instead threw her arms around his neck.

"Promise me you'll be careful," she spoke into his ear, "Promise me you'll come back safe."

"As you wish," he whispered back, holding her tight against him. Calen fought the urge to just forgo the trip all together and carry her back into the house. But he reminded himself there was good money to be made in Lordaeron this week. Enough, at least, to buy them a more comfortable bed. Reluctantly, he let her go and climbed onto a small wagon loaded with herbs and remedies. It was past time for him to be on his way.

"Use the wagon's lockbox and make sure it's bolted," Nessa said from beside the cart, "And don't keep too much gold on you at any one time A cutpurse will hear you before he sees you if there's coin rattling around in your pocket."

He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "I will," he said, "though I hardly think I'll need to. The Royal Guard will be all over the city to see Prince Arthas return from his victory in the north."

"All the more reason to be cautious," replied Nessa, "With all eyes on Arthas, no one will be watching their purses, guards least of all." One of these days, Calen was going to ask where she had learned such things. Certainly, being a merchant had taught her to be watchful, but there were simply too many scenarios she anticipated, and with an uncanny level of detail. Well, Calen wasn't complaining. Her sharp eye and quick hand had saved them on more than one occasion from losing a day's earnings to a passing pickpocket. A question for another time, though.

"I'll send word as soon as I reach Lordaeron," he told her.

"You had better," Nessa replied firmly, though a wry smile at the corner of her lips belied her scowl, "For if a thief doesn't cut you down, I may very well kill you myself for making me worry."

As Calen bid Nessa his farewells, he noticed that she was fingering the small pendant he had made for her. It wasn't much, just a leather band holding a twisted and looped piece of copper, and not a well-made one at that. He had only the most basic skill in metal working, any merchant worth his herbs had to keep his wagon intact, but she wore it as proudly as a queen displaying her most prized jewels. Calen smiled as he urged the horse forward, cart rocking as the wheels turned over the cobblestone path from their home to the road.

After a few minutes, he turned back to see Nessa wave goodbye in the distance. Giving a wave of his own, he returned to the task at hand. Passing through the Greymane Wall was no easy task. Licenses, rights of passage, cargo manifests; all had to be triple-stamped and double-authorized, and it still took a good bit of gold passed on the sly to inspectors to make things run smoothly.

Once outside the wall, he saw a line of petitioners stretching down the main road. There were always people trying to enter Gilneas, hoping for a more secure life in the most prosperous nation of the Eastern Kingdoms. He almost pitied them not having the luck to have been born in the city, but pity helped them as much as their sad life stories would with the gatekeepers. No one, other than Gilneans of course, could enter the Greymane Wall. Purposefully ignoring the beggars, Calen fixed his eyes on the road to Lordaeron.


	3. The Greymane Wall

The black of midnight obscured the land and the heavy rain beat at his face, but Calen could see the fires burning in the watchtowers along the Greymane Wall. Soon, he would be home. The cart had been abandoned. The horse was running at a full gallop and would probably die of exhaustion. Calen didn't care. After what he had seen in Lordaeron, nothing mattered more than returning to Nessa. He would find her, gather their things, and they would run. South, as far south as they could go. As far away from those … _things_ … as they could get.

Calen shuddered at the very thought. Part of him still wanted to deny it, that this was just some nightmare he had yet to wake from. But he had seen it with his own eyes. Panic in the streets of Lordaeron as putrid monstrosities tore people limb from limb, skeletal horrors that clawed at whatever was in reach, dark magic that caused flesh to rot from the bone. Prince Arthas was among the undead, leading them. Citizens at first flocked to him, unknowingly seeking his protection. He butchered them, his own people, and raised their lifeless bodies to carry on the attack. The screams. The screams still echoed in his mind.

A moment of relief passed through him as he approached the wall, but what he saw there drained whatever hope he had left. He had expected to push through the typical crowds of petitioners. Instead, he found the entrance mostly deserted. The gate was shut and heavy bars blocked the way. By the side of the road, huddled against their wagon, a group of women and children were weeping. On the road, closer to the gate, lie the corpses of two men and a boy, their bodies pierced by arrows. Calen reigned in his horse and drew closer to the people by the wagon.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded as he dismounted, "What happened here?"

One of the women looked up at him through the rain. "They said it's a quarantine," she replied in a rustic dialect, refugees from the countryside, "They said we was all infected with something. My Tim and his brother, they tried to tell 'em we was fine. Took our son to show 'em, he did. No sores, no nothin'. They … they didn't give him no chance. And now my boy … my boy's …"

She trailed off into jagged sobs broken only by the peals of thunder overhead. Calen's mind raced. Quarantine! Word must have gotten to Gilneas about what had happened in Lordaeron. There was no way to breach the wall. It had been built to repel rampaging hordes of orcs as well as rioting outlanders. It did its job on numerous occasions. What chance did a lone merchant have? No, Calen would not give in to despair. The guards could be reasoned with. Surely they were just keeping out the rabble. The gate would open for one of their own.

He approached the gate slowly on foot, arms out to his sides. In his hands he carried his rights-of-passage and licenses, the ink streaking down the soaked parchment. He glanced briefly at the bodies as he passed them by, then looked up at the gate. He could see no soldiers, but he knew they were there. Fires burned in the portcullis like blazing eyes looking down on him.

"My name is Calen Garrand," he called over the storm, "Merchant of Chapel Street, citizen of Gilneas, by mercy of King Genn Greymane I ask you to grant me entrance."

Silence. Perhaps they had not heard him. Calen took a tentative step forward and an arrow struck the mud near his foot. Calen froze, shocked. They had heard him, and replied. All his formalities had only managed to earn him a warning shot.

"For pity's sake!" he screamed, furious, "Let me in! My wife is still inside! At least tell her that - "

He was unable to finish. From behind him, a cold hand gripped his throat and a knife slid into his back. High pitched cries of terror rose from the women and children. As he slumped to the ground two dark figures rose up, a smaller one joining them, unholy light flickering in their eyes. More arrows fell from the ramparts and struck at the recently risen undead. They had as much effect as the rain. A few of the arrows hit Calen, though he could no longer feel them. As his breathing slowed and his eyes slid closed, he fixed his mind on Nessa. He pictured her face, that beautiful smiling face. Calen was determined to hold onto it as long as possible, to make it the last thing he thought of as he passed on.

He would not be so fortunate.


	4. Awareness

Of all the horrors unleashed upon Azeroth throughout innumerable ages, the most insidious was the Lich King's torture inflicted upon the minds of the Scourge. Calen was aware. From the moment he died and the whispers compelled him to stand again, through the endless rampaging and sleepless nightmares, Calen was aware of every single atrocity he was forced to commit.

Whatever part of him that still called itself Calen was relegated to a presence at the back of the mind of a shambling monstrosity. Countless times he tried to tell himself that it was not he who did these things. _He_ was not in control. _He_ was not to blame. Such wishful denial was impossible to maintain when all he could see was his hands tearing flesh from bones, all he could taste was the blood in his mouth, all he could hear were the satisfied grunts and howls of his voice. In his mind, locked away, he screamed, he raged, he sobbed, he bargained and begged with the voice that manipulated his rotting prison. It laughed and said it already had all it could need from him.

How long had it been? Calen could not remember. There was no rest to break the bonds of consciousness. Nights were as clear as days in this form. If only darkness could have obscured his vision and hidden some of the faces from his eyes. If only. But no, his eyes would not shut and the whispers in his head told him they never would. Worse, Calen was no longer certain those whispers were not his own. Were they always his? He was Calen. Calen … something. There had been a city, or a town, perhaps a woman? If only he could have a moment to think, but the whispers made it difficult, and they grew more compelling every day.

Years passed, each melding into an unending cycle of death and destruction. Then one day, while trudging through the wreckage that had recently been a village, the whispers stopped. Just stopped. For the first time since his death, Calen heard nothing but blissful silence. He blinked, and the sensation startled him. A groaning wail rose behind him. Calen turned to look and the action left him stumbling with vertigo. How long had it been since he turned his head at will? When he recovered he saw the sound had come from the other Scourge.

It was anarchy. A few, like Calen, were looking about them, trying to make sense of things. Most, however, seemed to be in a state of madness. They attacked whatever was in reach; tearing at fallen corpses, walls of houses, trunks of trees, each other. Many ran in whatever direction they happened to be facing without regard to destination or obstacles. Nothing guided them other than their own frenzy.

Calen wondered if anything guided him. He set his eyes on a barn that still had two of its walls standing. Thinking his own thoughts, he decided he wanted to go toward the barn and sit by it. Amazingly, his body complied without resistance; no voice in his head contradicted him; and Calen nearly wept at the sensation of rest when he leaned his back against the wooden boards. At long last, he was himself.

But for how long? The thought gripped him like an icy hand on his spine. He was not sure what had freed his mind, and whatever did might not last for long. At any moment he could be returned to a mindless thrall in service of the Lich King. Even if he was truly liberated, what then? Was he free to spend the remainder of his days recalling the death and enslavement he brought to countless lives?

It seemed a few of the other recently cognizant Scourge were coming to the same realization. A nearly skeletal man wearing the tattered robes of a priest was doubled over on his knees and screaming at his hands. A man with half his face missing had picked up a dagger and attempted to run it through his heart. After several tries, he beat his fists on the ground in frustration. A woman, he guessed it was a woman by the tattered linens that clung to it, walked slowly into a house that still burned and sat calmly on the floor while flames enveloped the structure. Through the doorway, he could see her, and she him. She lifted a boney arm in a gesture of farewell and a memory, distant and indistinct, skimmed across Calen's mind. Before he could fix on what it was, the roof collapsed on top of her.

Perhaps they had the right idea. There was no telling how long he had before losing his will again. He would never return to that. Oblivion was preferable. Calen walked slowly to a nearby catapult that had been used in the siege, some burning pitch still simmered in the bowl, ready to ignite his worn out flesh. His hand wavered over top of it and began to sear at the heat. Yes, this would be for the best.

"It would be a shame to make it this far," said a dark voice behind him, "Only to throw away what had been so dearly paid for." Calen spun around in terror. Had the voice returned already? When he saw who spoke, his mind eased, slightly. The words came from another Scourge, though this one seemed different. She was an elf, judging by the lithe stature and long ears. The skin on her arms and face bore no blemishes nor gaping wounds, though it did contain a necrotic bluish-purple from the absence of blood. She was clothed in a dark grey ranger's garb with a bow at her hip and a hood shading most of her face. Two red eyes blazed from the dusk.

"I … will not go back," Calen croaked. His words felt like gravel in his throat. "I won't be one of them again!"

"You won't," she replied, standing casually by the siege engine, "The Lich King's hold on you is broken and that is no small gift. Yet you seem ready to throw it away. Why?"

"Why?" said Calen, incredulous, "Look at me! What reason do I have to remain like this for one more second?" The lamenting cries of the awakened Scourge began to die down around them. Some cautiously gathered around, listening.

"You have a strong will," said the elf, "I asked myself much the same when I discovered I had regained the ability to question. Look to them." She pointed at some of the mindless wretches wandering the distant fields, attacking each other. "They were subject to the same treatment as you, and yet their minds are shattered while yours remains intact. That shows considerable strength, and we will need strength such as yours for what's to come." She gestured to the small crowd of undead that had gathered around them. "We will need all your strength."

Something kindled near Calen's unbeating heart when he listened to her speak and it grew to a flame as she continued. "You cannot return to the Scourge. Even if that was possible I would not allow it. Neither can you return to your former lives. The ones you cared for have forsaken you and given you up for dead." She looked down at a ring on her finger and her voice went momentarily soft, "Better that way anyhow."

Her eyes returned to the present and she addressed the group that continued to grow larger. "Alone, there is only despair, and then madness. But together, we are stronger for our shared suffering. Never before has a creature survived such a punishment as the one inflicted upon us. I see it only fitting that we shall see that suffering visited ten-fold upon he who is responsible. Yes, though he has been weakened he is still out there. He calls his champion Arthas to his side even as we speak. Should he succeed, he will cover the world in a second darkness. Join with me. Fight for the Forsaken and I promise you will see justice done!"

A fire burned within Calen, a cold fire that gave no warmth. Vengeance. It was a purpose, a reason for going on. It wasn't hope, but it would do. She turned back to him. "What do you remember?" she asked.

He paused, sifting through memories of endless slaughter and death, trying to find something of his own. "Calen," he said, "My name was … is Calen. I held on to that much at least. The rest is a blur. I … I think I know something of herbs."

"Calen," she said, resting a hand on his shoulder, "I am Sylvanas. It is good to have you with us. We can use you."


	5. Dead, Again

Calen was dead … again.

It wasn't all that unpleasant for him. Inconvenient, yes, but not terribly devastating. Being undead brought with it a sense of sublime stoicism when it came to facing one's mortality, or lack thereof. Still, he couldn't help but feel peeved at the small band of adventurers who had interrupted his evening errands in Silverpine. Those peaceblooms weren't going to pick themselves after all.

His friends, such as they were, would be by soon enough to collect his various pieces and stitch them back together, substituting a few spare parts for anything unrecoverable. He hoped they would do a better job than last time. Months ago, some fool had gotten it in his head that his fingers were worth a tidy bounty. Upon being resurrected in the Undercity, he was informed that the only replacements left in stock had belonged to gnomes. The gesture he gave the surgeon to express his disapproval was somewhat lacking due to his new diminutive digits.

Lying on his back, unable to move though taking note of faces and voices for later; Calen watched as the paladin who stood above him placed a rude boot to the side of Calen's face in order to withdraw his claymore.

"Another Light-forsaken Scourge put to rest, Myrella" he declared in self-righteous tones that would have made Calen groan if he could. The man that towered over him was clad in silver armor trimmed in gold that would have gleamed if not for layers of travelling dust. A short beard of dark brown scruff hung off his face and he scratched at it absentmindedly. The fringes of his fine blue cloak were frayed and mud stained. No doubt some zealot out of Stormwind seeking glory and honor by slaughtering yet another Forsaken. But Calen had to wonder how long he had been crusading to let his precious armor become so tattered.

"This one isn't Scourge, Torrick" replied someone standing behind him. Calen couldn't tilt his head to see, but it sounded female; and given the calm and collected manner in which the statement was delivered, he would wager anything that it came from a Night Elf. She wore the ceremonial white robes of her order, now grayed with use, trimmed with black and gold. Another Priestess of Elune, come to cleanse the land that they had no claim to. Paladins were bad enough, but at least they fought with a countenance of fury or grim determination. The clergy were insufferable. Pity was etched on their faces, on their very being, and pity was one thing a Forsaken could not abide. His suspicions were confirmed when she knelt by his side.

"This one carries the mark of the Dark Lady," Myrella continued, "We are in Forsaken territory at last." She sounded relieved to Calen, as though nearing the end of a journey. Oh, her journeying days would be over soon enough if he had anything to do with it. He'd wrap his tiny fingers around her throat and- He could hear the sound of bony hooves clattering in the distance, his ear being literally to the ground. Good, the Deathguard was making its rounds. He'd be back in the Undercity in short order, with these two buffoons' fingers as trophies. By the way the elf's ears twitched, he knew she could hear them as well.

"A patrol is nearby. We have to get off the road," she said abruptly to the paladin. "Bring him."

"By the Light, why?" questioned Torrick, "Better to leave him here as bait for the others. If we ambush them here -"

"If we ambush them here," the priest interrupted, "we may very well be victorious. But then what? Five scouts gone missing will raise more alarm among the Undercity than some wayward herbalist. By morning the hillside will be swarming with guards and we are not here to slay undead." The paladin grimaced at that. "No more questions. Bring him."

The indignity of being slung over a shoulder like so much baggage was not lost on Calen, despite not being able to raise any protest. It was that or be dragged by the heel and these two were apparently smart enough not to leave a trail directly to their hiding spot. Still, Calen took a little comfort from the way Torrick's nose turned up as he was hefted over a set of stout pauldrons. With any luck, the smell would linger on that armor for a few days.

Calen bounced roughly as the paladin ran for a small copse of trees near a hill. The fading light in the sky caused it to blend in well with the surrounding hillside. Upon reaching cover, Calen was hurled quite roughly against a boulder near some bushes. His head cracked against stone and the force caused one of his eyes to dislodge from its socket. Slumped against the rock, he watched the elf retreat into the thicket with one eye and his lower half twitch with the other.

Silence so deep settled upon the area that for a moment Calen wondered if the impact had knocked him senseless. The human and elf seemed not to breathe, which would have been disconcerting to anyone but an undead. The sun continued its decent behind the hills. A few moments passed and he heard the unmistakable sound of skeletal hooves. The Deathguard had arrived and, through the leaves, Calen could see they had stopped at the same spot where he had fallen.

The Deathguard had been brigands and highwaymen in life, before being raised by Lady Sylvanas' banshees as her personal guard. They still retained the same cunning and deftness of their former selves; experience born from dozens of skirmishes and raids. They knew the telltale signs of a surprise attack: matted grass, disturbed earth; and they knew they were looking at the aftermath of a fresh ambush.

Their blades caught the last of the dying light as they flashed from their scabbards. The sound of live steel hardened the face of the paladin and caused that detestable pity to unsmooth the priest's countenance. The sound of galloping hooves caused grips to tighten on sword and staff alike. But it was the sound heard next that managed to send chills down every spine.

Piercing, animalistic howls rose from the trees and echoed off the mountains, seeming to come from all sides. The Deathguard ceased their charge immediately as undead steeds reared in terror. Swords went back to hips as the patrol formed a circle, nocking arrows to short bows. Helmed heads seemed to turn everywhere trying to find the source of the sound. The priest and paladin were doing much the same; the elf merged with the shadows and a glow from the paladin signified he had embraced the Light, sanctifying himself for battle. Such an act would have certainly given away their position had the Deathguard not been more interested in holding their ground. Calen wanted nothing more than to run, to scream out for the protection of the Dark Lady, to be anywhere but here! Instead, immobilized and with one eye fixed, he was forced to watch the carnage.

The sun had set not long ago and darkness was just beginning to settle upon the valley, yet darker shades of shadow moved through the dusk like liquid night. Worgen. Eyes flashed in those shadows; yellow, gleaming, unnatural even to an undead. They moved with a speed that seemed impossible even for a frenzied demon to match. The Deathguard let arrows fly in all directions. A few found their marks. Hollow thumps and staccato clangs marking where steel had sunk into shields and armor; sharp cries and dull thuds where they pierced flesh. But while two or three of the creatures slid to a halt, the volley did nothing to slow the dark tide.

The earth trembled as vines burst from the ground and coiled around the hapless defenders, constricting riders and steeds alike. A few of the guards slashed at them with free arms, but where one fell, two more rose to take its place. Sharp thorns dug into skin and rooted the group to the ground.

As the creatures drew in closer to the patrol, swords rang and men screamed, but they were both soon drowned in the sounds of slaughter. Tearing flesh and snapping bones, the beasts were merciless. Guttural barks passed between them as they shredded the remains. There would be no survivors, nothing to salvage and resurrect in the Undercity. No spare fingers. The death they suffered would be permanent.

As quickly as the bloodthirsty shades came, they vanished, melting into the night. Several moments passed before either of the adventurers dared to move.


	6. To Find What We Look For

"I believe an alarm may be raised after all," said Torrick, somewhat breathless.

Myrella did not look at him. Her face was transfixed on the glistening spot of land where the remains of the guards had been scattered. "I've … only heard stories. I thought they were supposed to be … Goddess preserve us!"

It was only momentary but Calen heard real fear in her voice. The next time she spoke, it was as if nothing had happened. "Lay him out, Torrick. I need to question him."

"You can't be serious!" The words flashed through Calen's mind at the same time they left the paladin's mouth.

"After what we've just seen, I can't put faith in rumors and hearsay," said Myrella, "I want facts and he's going to give them to us."

"Good luck getting him to talk, let alone say anything you can trust," Torrick said as he stretched Calen flat upon the ground, shoving his eyeball back in crooked, "I've never seen an undead, Scourge or Forsaken, react well to the Light."

"Indeed," replied Myrella, "that fact will be quite useful for encouraging him to be cooperative. However, I intend to use … other means, to make him speak."

Myrella knelt beside Calen and place her hands upon his chest while Torrick watched intently. As she did, Calen could feel dark energy begin to stir within him; the same energy that animated his rotting body. Calen could feel bone and sinew reconnect, gaps in nerves mend, and muscles fill with vigor.

As she channeled, Myrella's breath began to quicken. Calen's eyes flicked toward her and saw that she herself had grown darker, less substantial. Torrick caught sight of this and pulled her away, breaking the spell. So she knew something of the Shadow, did she? Calen had heard cultists speak of it in Brill. They said it was the antithesis of the Light. They also said it was seductive; the more you drew upon it, the more you wanted. If you weren't careful, it would consume you, and it took incredible willpower to walk the hair's breadth between control and obliteration.

Torrick held onto Myrella as she recovered herself. Concern showed plainly on his face, but not entirely for her well-being. "I can't imagine the Sisterhood teaches such techniques in Darnassus," he said.

"Ignorance is a dangerous weakness," replied Myrella, her face returning to a mask of cool serenity, "To remain oblivious to the workings of our enemies is to hand them an advantage. Besides, I only healed him enough to speak, nothing more."

Calen worked his jaw and cleared his throat. It appeared as if the priest had indeed restored him, at least partially. What she didn't know was that Calen could feel control returning to his limbs; a twitch of the hand, a slight jerk of the knee, almost imperceptible but not involuntary. Perhaps she didn't have as much discipline as she thought she did. Ignorance, a dangerous weakness indeed.

The paladin dragged Calen over to a nearby tree and rested him against it in a sitting position. Calen let his head droop and sway. He wasn't sure how much of his strength had returned to him. He needed time. Let them think he was helpless and weak. Let them drop their guards.

Torrick lifted Calen's head and spoke to him. "By what name are you called, wretch?"

Calen muttered a few curses in Gutterspeak that would have shocked a ghoul. Torrick responded by placing his palm on Calen's forehead. White searing light pulsed through Calen's head as the skin began to burn, eliciting sharp cries of pain. It took all of Calen's considerable willpower to keep his arms and legs from thrashing. He did not want them to know the priest had drawn more of the Shadow than she had intended.

The paladin only risked a few seconds worth of the Light's power on him. Any more and there might not be much left to converse with. The priest shook her head slowly.

"If you would be so kind as to speak to us in Common," said Myrella, "And do be polite. Torrick deals with rude tongues in a most unpleasant manner. Now, let us begin again. What is your name?"

"Calen," he replied through a clenched jaw. Smoke rose from the imprint of a hand branded on his scalp.

"Good," said the priest, "We have an understanding now, yes? My name is Myrella Dal'amere and this is my associate, Torrick Lighthammer. We have come here seeking information that I believe you are in a unique position to provide to us. If you would be so kind, Calen, tell us what you know of Worgen."

Calen had seen evidence of the Alliance's stupidity, but never this blatant. They put a sword through him just so they could ask him questions? Next they would chop off his leg and tell him to dance. Very well, "I know enough to stay away from them," Calen grunted, "They kill anything that gets close and they seem to hate undead with a single-mindedness that puts your pet paladin to shame."

Calen's vision blurred as Torrick's gauntleted fist cracked across his jaw. He chuckled to himself despite the throbbing pain. This one had a predictable temper. Useful.

"Have you noticed anything different about them recently?" asked Myrella, "Has there been any change in their appearance?"

"Why, now that you mention it," said Calen in mocking tones, "About a week ago, one of them was walking down the path wearing a red hood and cloak, carrying a basket to grandmother's ho-ah AHHHHH!"

Calen screamed as Torrick snatched his tongue from his mouth. Holy light surged down his throat and exploded in his chest as his mind nearly shattered in pain. The priest turned her head to avoid looking at his convulsing body.

"Oh, Calen," she said in tones of contemptible pity, "I told you how Torrick deals with rude tongues."

Calen tried to form words but the paladin maintained his grip. A fanatic light shone in Torrick's eyes and if not for an admonishing word from Myrella, Calen had no doubt he would have reduced his body to ash. As it was, on the verge of having his tongue ripped out of his skull, Torrick let go and Calen told what he knew.

"M-More … lately," Calen panted, "More of them. Past few months. Better … organized."

Torrick and Myrella shot each other a knowing glance. They shared a nod and turned back to Calen with renewed interest. "You spoke of their tactics changing," said Torrick, "Are they more coordinated? How so? Speak!"

Calen's head was swimming as he tried to recover his wits. Keep them talking, he told himself, keep them asking questions. Time, just a little more time. "They began as small skirmishes," he said, "A pack three here, four there, picking off lone travelers or the weak and wandering newly risen. They were more of a nuisance the guards had to deal with. We learned to avoid certain areas, especially at night. That changed some time ago. The packs increased four-fold in the span of a week. They became bolder, too. Striking at the outskirts of towns and ransacking caravans. They set fires, drew defenders away from fortifications, and cut off supply routes."

"The ones who attacked the Deathguard," said Myrella, "Some of them wore armor. The beasts we encountered in Darkshire held no concern for their own well-being or that of their kin. Is that a recent occurrence here?"

"Perhaps," Calen said, resisting the urge to shrug his shoulders, "Thank the Lady I was never close enough to see. However, in the early skirmishes there would be a few of their corpses lying around. We couldn't use anything from them and the scavengers of the forests refused the carrion, so we just burned the bodies. From what I've heard, there haven't been any burnings in weeks, even though I know dozens have fallen." Calen leveled a stare at Torrick. "Perhaps they've begun to treat their dead with respect?"

Calen braced for an impact that did not come. Instead of striking him, the paladin stood and walked a short span away, Myrella joining him. The two began conversing in low tones not meant for Calen's ears. He didn't care for their words, only that their backs were turned. This was what Calen had been waiting for. The humiliation he had endured was about to pay off. He rose silently as his hand moved toward a secret pocket sewn into the back of his leather jerkin. They had thought him weak. They had thought him helpless. A fatal mistake.

Myrella spoke with a hushed yet urgent voice. "They may have found a way to control it. Or, at the very least, live with the worgen curse while retaining their minds."

Torrick shook his head. "You believe his lies only because you _want_ to. I know you feel some responsibility toward them, but they are lost."

"My people were responsible for introducing this sickness to the world," said Myrella, "It is our duty to find a cure. You saw the magic they wielded against the Deathguard. No mindless beast could command nature like that. We must seek them out."

Torrick saw that she would not be dissuaded and nodded. "Very well. We may be able to pick up a trail from the road. Shall I dispose of our guest?"

Myrella gave a slight bob of her head and Torrick turned to where the prisoner had lain. He experienced only a moment of shock as Calen's dagger flew from the darkness and lodged in his throat. The paladin fell to his knees and collapsed onto his side. The priest turned in horror as another dagger flew silently toward her. The blade grazed her neck as she melted into the shadows, hiding herself.

Calen ran from the trees towards the remains of the Deathguard. The paladin was dead. The priest would die shortly from the poison, but he was not about to take any chances. Those were his only two blades. He was defenseless with a wounded enemy and a pack of bloodthirsty beasts nearby. If he couldn't find a weapon, maybe he could find a hearthstone or a summoning crystal on one of the patrol. Anything to get him away from here!

The swords were all broken and the shields were splintered and useless. A few bows remained, but he had never used one. He began searching through pockets and packs, but found nothing that could aid his escape. Desperate, he began examining dead hands, hoping that one of the rings on the fingers were magical and not just for vanity. Suddenly, upon prying open a disembodied fist, he saw something that caught his eye. This guardsman must have wrested it from one of the worgen in the fight. A small copper ring, faded and going green with age, on a broken leather strap. Calen picked up the cord and stood. What was it about this trinket? It was as if it was, familiar, somehow.

A rustle of leaves from behind him caused Calen to whip around to face the sound. As he did, he found himself frozen in place. Chains of light bound his arms and legs as tightly as steel. He remained standing, but unable to move. On the side of the road, near the trees, Myrella lay nearly prostrate on her hands and knees, one trembling arm outstretched toward Calen. The gash on her neck festered and foam had gathered at the corner of her mouth.

Calen knew she was as good as dead, but he was impressed she had managed to survive this long. No matter, if all she could do was bind him, he could outlast her. Suddenly, Calen could hear something breathing behind him which turned into a deep growl. Impossible! The elf was going to leave him for the worgen to finish off! Myrella's lips nearly curled into a smile as the light faded from her eyes. The last of her strength left her and she collapsed motionless upon the ground.

The bonds held. She must have put all she had into that last spell. Heavy footsteps thudded on the ground as the creature moved from behind Calen to face him. It was not quite as tall as he, but it managed to loom over him nonetheless. The snarl from its muzzle bore yellow teeth as sharp as knives. A dark leather tunic clung to its slender frame and two short-swords hung from its belt, though it made no motion to draw them out. Instead scythe-like claws extended and retracted from the fingers it held up to his face, as if it wanted him to know it was choosing not to use its weapons.

The beast stared into Calen's eyes and he back at it. But his fear and rage were interrupted when he saw the flickering golden eyes flash blue for an instant; an intense blue that brought memories long buried and forgotten. A woman had those same eyes he knew long ago. She had a keepsake of his, too. A copper ring. He dropped his head to look at the bauble. The snarling animal followed his eyes. When it saw the ring in his hand, its face twisted in fury as it let out an ear-splitting howl. Calen looked back up. There was a name at the back of his mind.

"Nessa," he said, as the worgen tore off his head with one swipe of its arm.

The corpse lay broken and scattered with the rest. It was necessary to shred the remains to ensure they wouldn't return, but this time Nessa took pleasure in the act. The thing had the audacity to try and take what was hers. She had gone through too much to lose that ring. She kept it safe through the riots, through the war, through the Change. She would be damned if she let some rotting scavenger steal it. The ring was all she had left of her husband.

Nessa retied the leather strap and hung it around her neck. For a moment, she gripped the ring in her hand and held it against her chest, remembering Calen. She would keep it always, until she found him again.


End file.
